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In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. ‘Certainly you are imbecile. ‘Jacques, do not go!’ Jack gazed steadfastly at the floor. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest.
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